It’s not difficult to imagine the old days of the Chicago Athletic Association, when jowly titans of industry circled each other like rutting pronghorns, slugging whiskey and lobbing medicine balls in their sweat-damp towels. The recent restoration of Henry Ives Cobb’s 122-year-old Venetian Gothic edifice is so remarkable that if you could only shut out the chatter of the new Michigan Avenue hotel’s casually dressed guests you might hear the ghosts of the fusty old patriarchy harrumphing at the sudden presence of the fair sex in their midst. That’s especially true of its primary restaurant, Cherry Circle Room, a majestic dining space where not even a soundtrack of the Stooges and Nick Cave can burn off the mist of louche exclusivity. The enigmatic grandeur is further enhanced by the framed silk banners of imaginary secret societies that hang on the walls and the arcane symbols painted on the serviceware. The bar, the room’s most prominent feature, wraps around nearly half its outer edge. Behind it bartenders scale ladders to reach bottles of spirits situated next to incongruous bric-a-brac like vintage megaphones, astronaut helmets, and statuary of reposing sheep.
A deconstructed shrimp cocktail finds the sweet crustaceans splayed across a plate with celery leaf and a bright and acidic if oily cocktail sauce. A fresh Caesar salad substitutes deep-fried nuggets of smelt for both anchovies and croutons. Rare slices of aged duck are arranged upon a bed of wild rice and orzo and lacquered with a sumptuous roasted plum sauce. The Duroc pork chop arrives dissected as well, its slices situated amid farro, artichoke hearts, and a “clams casino sauce” that features whole bivalves.
But these are mostly surmountable problems. And once they’re surmounted, this old boys’ club is going to be an excellent retreat from the Michigan Avenue madness. v
12 S. Michigan 312-792-3515cherrycircleroom.com
